Chapter 5

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Greg and I were geared up to go into the sewers and shake some answers out of our good friend Rabbit. And by “good friend,” I mean “weaselly little shithead that would gladly pick his mother’s pocket for scratch-off lottery tickets.”

As usual, Greg and I had vastly differing ideas about what “geared up” meant. For me, I felt pretty prepared with my gum boots, long black coat, Glock 19 on my hip, Ruger LCP on my right ankle, and my KA- BAR on my left side. I decided against carrying my sword, because I wasn’t planning on fighting off the Norman invasion, and it always made me a little nervous carrying the legendary Excalibur down into a sewer. Just felt irreverent, somehow. Even for me.

Greg, however, looked like the Michelin Man joined the SWAT Team. He was in full black tactical garb, which I didn’t even think came in XXXL, with his pants tucked down inside his combat boots. He wore a flak jacket, a pair of nickel-plated Colt 1911 pistols on his hips, a Mossberg pistol-grip shotgun strapped across his back, and an MP5 submachine gun in a harness across his chest. He topped the whole ensemble off with a helmet that had a pair of SureFire LED flashlights mounted to it.

I looked him up and down, then sighed. “You remember that we can see in the dark, right?”

“Well . . . yeah,” he admitted.

“And that we can’t really be killed with bullets, unless somebody shoots us square in the heart with a shotgun or a Desert Eagle or something like that?”

“Yeah, okay, the Kevlar might be overkill, I’ll give you that.”

“And let’s not leave out the fact that you are about the least ambidextrous person I know, so that second giant pistol is about as useful as a lie detector on a politician.”

“Yeah, but they look really cool.”

I had to give him that one. The pistols did look pretty cool, gleaming from his black Velcro holsters like that.

“Fair enough. The pistols can stay. But the machine gun goes. I am not having you spraying lead all around me if I need to kick something’s ass.”

His voice took on a mocking, sing-song lilt. “What happened to ‘we can’t be killed by bullets,’ Mr. Tough Guy?”

“I’ve been shot before. It didn’t kill me, but it hurt like hell. Let’s try not to do that again. Now dump the helmet and the MP5, and let’s get out of here.”

“What about the dragon fire shells?”

“What?!?”

“They’re shotgun shells that shoot white phosphorous. I thought they’d be really useful if we came across vampires.”

I took a deep breath. “Greg. We’re vampires. Which means we’re super-flammable. So let’s not carry things that make fire, okay?”

He grumbled a little, but ejected five shells from the Mossberg and set them on the table. Then he stripped off the MP5, the helmet, and the bulletproof vest, and piled them next to the ammo. Looking slightly less ridiculous, he reloaded the shotgun, with normal shells this time, and we set off.

My biggest gripe with the Morlocks—Rabbit’s people—aside from their only paying lip service to my rules as Master of the City and their lack of tribute payments, was their lair. Sewers stink. And when all your senses are preternaturally heightened, that’s some serious bad juju. So I smeared a little Vick’s on my upper lip in a futile effort to tamp down the stench, tapped in a code on the security door leading into an underground network of tunnels between our house and my office building downtown, and we ventured out to see the Morlocks.

“So why do you think Rabbit kidnapped this girl?” Greg asked.

“Well, we don’t know for sure that he did,” I said. “I mean, kidnapping isn’t really his thing. But he’s also a dick, and a criminal, and leader of a band of vampires who think of themselves like a bunch of boho Robin Hoods, only without the giving to the poor part, so who knows?”

“I don’t know, Jimmy, the Morlocks aren’t that bad. They’ve just had a tough go of it.” That’s my partner, Pollyanna. Sometimes I think he just says cheerful shit to make me look more like a bad guy. Like I need the help these days.

“Sure, whatever,” I said. “Here we are.” I pressed on a brick, and a section of tunnel wall swung open. I’ll admit, there was something pretty cool about being a vampire lord with secret passages under my house. We stepped through the doorway from the relatively clean tunnels between our place and the office, into the Morlock tunnels, which were basically a network of mostly abandoned sewer tunnels underneath Charlotte. I say “mostly” because as soon as I made it through the passage, I stepped in a puddle that reminded me why I wore the waterproof boots.

“I hate this place,” I grumbled.

“Well, you’re more than welcome to leave,” a voice called from ahead of me. I looked up, and a huge vampire stepped into view. This wasn’t Rabbit. This looked more like something that made a habit of eating Rabbits.

“Who are you?” I called back. I didn’t recognize this guy. He wasn’t a Morlock I’d ever seen before, but he wore the ragtag uniform of a Mad Max extra or a Morlock. His jeans were mud-spattered and patched, his boots were worn, and his Ramones T-shirt was stretched tight over what looked like chain mail. Tattoos peeked out of the sleeves of his shirt and up around his neck. I wasn’t sure if I was looking at a renegade vampire or a time-traveling punk-rock knight-errant.

“Name’s Bishop,” he said. “I’m the new Morlock Sergeant-at-Arms. And you’ll be surrendering yours before you move any further into our territory.” He held out a hand the size of a dinner plate.

I took three long steps forward and grabbed his hand, turning the shovel-sized appendage sideways and giving it a shake. “Jimmy Black, Master of the City, nice to meet you, Bishop. And I don’t give up my weapons. Ever.”

“Then you can just step right back through that hole in the wall and get out of our tunnels, Jimmy Black.” Bishop drew himself up to his full height, which only put him at eye level with me. I guess he’d hope to be impressive, but I’m really tall, so his intimidation lost something in the comparison.

“Maybe you’re new in town, or you missed the last part of the name, Bish,” I said, keeping a relaxed grin on my face. I knew Greg had me covered with the Mossberg, so if this giant decked me, he’d end up with a face full of buckshot for his troubles. “But I’m the Master of the City, and that means under it as well. So I go where I want, when I want, and I carry what I want. We clear?”

“Oh, you’re clear, all right. We just don’t care. You come into Morlock land, you’re coming in unarmed. Period. Them’s the rules, straight from Rabbit himself.” He folded his big arms across his chest and glared at me. He did a pretty good glare, the scar running along one side of his jaw giving him a naturally mean look. The sapling-sized arms didn’t hurt, either. He might not have been taller than me, but he was definitely twice my size. I bet in life, he was one tough bastard.

Problem was, he wasn’t alive anymore, and neither was I. Death is often a great equalizer, but sometimes it does more than balance the scales. Sometimes it tips them all the way in the other direction. I didn’t bother responding, I just hauled off with my right fist and cracked Bishop on the point of the jaw with an uppercut that came from my ankles. He flew off his feet, his arms falling limp to his sides, and crashed to the floor about four feet from where he once stood.

The punch knocked him cold, but the landing woke him up, and he woke up pissed. He popped to his feet and charged me, head down like an angry bull. Well, I’ve watched a couple of matador videos on YouTube, so I did what any good matador does when charged by an angry bull—I stepped out of the way and let my bowling ball-shaped best friend scoop the bull up in a huge bodyslam, sending the bull to the ground once again.

“Nicely done,” I said.

“Thanks,” Greg replied, taking a couple of steps back in case Bishop went for his ankles.

Sure enough, the big Morlock looped an arm out in a sweep that would have taken Greg down just seconds before, but met with nothing but air now. He scrambled to his feet and drew a pistol, aiming it at Greg’s face. “I’m going to kill you, you little son of a bitch.”

“Drop it,” I said, putting just a hint of power into my voice.

“You dumbass,” Bishop chuckled. “That shit only works on humans. You can’t compel a vampire.”

“You can’t. Some can, notably old vamps, powerful vamps, and the Master of the City,” I said. “Which I am. Now put the gun down.” This time I really pushed him, and he knelt down and set the gun on the tunnel floor at his feet.

Then he stood up and gaped at me. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I told you, dumbass. I am the Master of the frickin’ City, and you will do what I say, when I say it, or I will kick your ass up around those oversize shoulders. You got that?” He nodded, a hint of fear in his eyes. “Good, now pick up your gun and go tell Rabbit we’re here to see him. And if you get any bright ideas about trying to shoot me, I will shove that pistol so far up your ass you’ll be shitting nine-millimeter bullets for a month.”

He picked up the gun and ran past us, tossing the occasional worried glance over his shoulder as he went. Greg walked up to me, grinning like an idiot. “Shitting nine-millimeter?” he asked.

“They can’t all be gold, pal. Now come on, let’s go see a rodent about a girl.”